


The Long Dark

by Solea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Complete, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Psychological Torture, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solea/pseuds/Solea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, this fic sort of happened to me all in on day. It's quite the darkest thing I've ever written. It's completely finished, I'll be posting a chapter every three days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dark. Cold and damp. Mildew, I can smell it. I raise my head and, damn, I wish I hadn’t. Shoulder. My shoulder is _screaming_. Suck air through my nose in small gasps. Stay still still still. Endorphins release. Habituation. New pains. _Perfect_. I’m on my knees. Of course I am, kneeling on concrete. Wrists bound. Elbows bound, tied up behind. Can’t straighten up.

I’ve seen this shit before. This is old hat for me, you arseholes, I was in a fucking _war_. You don’t think I know how to deal with this? Fuck you, I can breathe. You want me to get up, I know it, you want me to try to get to my feet, to ease the stress on my chest. But I’ve been like this too long already. My blood’s clotted on all the cuts you gave me trying to bring me down, so no, ta, I think I’ll just stay on my knees and not rip my shoulders out of their sockets when my legs collapse out from under me.  

Besides Sherlock will probably bound through that door over there in a minute and. And. _Shit_. Nope. _No_. No bloody no no no no. Stop. _Stop_.

Sherlock is fine. Yes, he was behind me. Yes, there were shots fired. But Mycroft’s agents were there too and, heh, there is no way on earth he’d let his brother get captured. I held off the baddies in front of us, and Mycroft’s men dragged him back, I know they did, I remember, I heard him screaming for me. I’m so much meat to Mycroft, but Sherlock is his _brother_. So don’t. Think. About it. It is an _impossibility_. No reason to hyperventilate over something that could not have happened, Watson, just calm the _fuck down_ , Watson. There’s bound to be plenty of shit coming up that’s real for you to deal with. Leave it. Leave it. Calm. The fuck. Down.

 _As_ I was saying, you fuckers, he’ll bound through that door and then, won’t you be in for it then. _You just wait till my boyfriend gets here._ Hah. No, nope no laughing hurts, and you’re not mad yet, Watson, shut up, just shut up and breathe and breathe and breathe.

No good, not enough air, chest can’t expand. Fuck it. Drop forward, just let it happen. If you’re unconscious your fucking shoulder won’t bother you anymore. And when you wake up, you’ll be back in Baker...Street. In bed. In.  

~~~

“GOD NO! _Stop_ , please stop stop please stop, God make it _stop_ , make it stop makeitstopplease God, please _please_. What. What do you want?”

“Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck yo_ \--No NO nononono stop, God stop. My heart-- you’ll _kill_ me stop. What do you want? WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“Fuck Y--PLEASE GOD NO no, no no no…”

~~~

Everything...god the burning. My muscles, my stomach. Don’t move, Watson, stay still. Still. Breathe. Breaths. Breathing. It’s good to breathe, yeah? Just breathe. They’ve bandaged you up. They almost went too far and now they need to let you recuperate. Yeah.

You’ve been moved. Smell the air, it’s cleaner, it’s different--- antiseptic. And you..are laying on a...bed? _Oh my god_ am I in a hospital did they find me ohmygod open your damn eyes, Watson, it can’t be that scary just open...

Oh. Fuck me. Nope. Not a hospital. Oh, and look, chains. How fucking cute. Actual fucking chains. Real life fucking manacles. What is this, 15th century Spain? Fuck it at least you have a bed. And a table. And a toilet, of all the wonders in the world. Better kip than a wet basement, right, Watson?  

God, I hurt. _I hurt_. My chest.. it’s---fuck, what? Are those? Oh _God,_ slowly. Slowly now, Watson, it can’t be what it looks like. They _can’t_ have-- oh god o _h god they did_ oh god, t _hey’re inside me_ , they put electrodes _under my fucking skin_ fuck stop, _god no stop_ stop stop stop…breathe, damn it, _breathe_ do _not_ pass out do not pass out--do. not. pass out. Do not. Pass out. Breathe.

Man up, you’re not _currently_ being tortured. It hurts, but it’s bearable. Just. Sit up. Oh, look, you can feel every single individual muscle in your body. Hello there latissimus dorsi, aren’t you fucking painful today. And you, rectus abdominis. Must have gotten an extra jolt all your own. Pectoralis majors, both of you lucky guys, you don’t hurt much now, but when they turn those fucking things _on my god oh my god_ no, nope nonono. Just...G _od_. Just.

Water. It’s right there...right there just reach. God. No, _God it hurts_ hurts hurts  just breathe, breathe and reach...What the.

“WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?”

Mistake, chest.. god the pain, ok, no more shouting, Watson, breathe..just breathe.

“I need a drink, and it seems as though you’ve made these _fucking chains_ a few centimeters too short.”

Yeah, you’re definitely talking to a wall. But there’s a little grill there yeah? Next to where the chains and the wires _oh god, wires in my chest under my skin fuck fuck fuck_...no No. _No._ Just. No. Where that stuff goes into the wall...through the wall, isn’t that odd. The chains and the wi--the chains are just sort of fed through these holes here...but. Um. Fuck it, I don’t care. I’m so fucking thirsty.

“I could die from dehydration just as easily as I’d die from repeated electrocution. Let me drink, you mad bastards.”

Don’t reach again. Definition of insanity, Watson, the chains haven’t magically lengthened. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

“Fine, have it your way. I will die. I will fucking lay back down on this fucking cot in this stupid fucking room and FUCKING DIE. Fuck you very much.”

That’ll show them. Now close your eyes and pretend to sleep. Just pretend to... sleep…

~~~

Mouth. On fire. Throat burning. I need.

“I need the fucking water.”

God is that my voice? Yank at the chains. No closer. It’s probably stale. There’s a coating of dust over it now...dusty fucking tepid old water. It’s perhaps a loud commentary on your life choices that this seems like the pinnacle of luxury, Watson. I can almost feel it trickling down my throat…

“Ask nicely.”

That fucker’s been here before, Watson. Remember? Maybe. Been delirious. I thought there was someone...

“Water. I will fucking die.” Can’t talk anymore. Too much pain.

“Ask. Nicely.”

Well, maybe a few more words.

“ _Fuck y_ -”

_Fire fire in my skin fire under my skin it’s fire it’s burning burning me from the inside I can’t scream, can’t breathe can’t can’t can’t god nonononono..._

Gasping and choking. Get a grip. Get a grip. There are two choices. Ask for water, or sass and death. _Water or death_. Waterordeath.

“Please let me drink.” Is he there? Can anyone hear me? Apparently they can because more chain slides through the wall. There’s slack but I can’t move I don’t think I can move. Yeah, I definitely cannot move. It’s too late.

Well, at least you fucking _broke_ in the end you stupid fucking twat, Watson, you goddamn pussy, now you’re a--a little _bitch_ and you’re just as dead. Just...Sherlock. _Sherlock. Goodbye…I’m sorry. Goodbye…_

_Ohmygod the pain pain pain, awake awake, I’m awake stop stop stop please please._

“Ask nicely, Dr. Watson.” He’s there again. Why’s he there? Fuck it.

“PLEASE MAY I HAVE SOME WATER?”

It’s let up, I can roll. I can sort of crawl toward the….they want me to drink? Is that what this is about? Fine fine fine, good, I want to drink too, but I can’t, I can’t lift my arms, oh god, there’s that tingle are they going to start again REACH----Cup cup lips, Oh it’s so good, it’s so good  but I can’t hold on to the cup, come on, WATSON keep your fingers closed-- nope there it goes and here it

_COMES oh god, no please stop I’m sorry I’m sorry oh god no no no._

“What do you say, Dr. Watson?”

“FUCK THANK YOU NO PLEASE. Thank you thank you, god please just….please just let me have more, please can I have more water, please don’t turn it back on just...water, please please….don’t, just water. Just...”

~~~

I have to piss. I have to get up and I can’t...Yes. Yes I can. Well, would you look at that. Ok, vastus lateralis, medialis, obliques, rectus femoris you’re gonna tighten and lift and now it’s your turn soleus, peroneals, tibialis. Step. One step, now another and...Oh god, no. The fucking _motherfuckers._ Watson, you can do this.

“Please. Uh…” oh god, no, _the tingling they’re gonna_

“PLEASE LET ME PISS DON’T PLEASE DON’T TURN IT ON”

You fucking pussy, you fucking horrible, pathetic stupid-- oh look more chain, how nice, now just piss _why can’t you piss_ hurry they’re going to, god no, they’re going to…. _fuck no please please just stop stop stop please please stop……_

And now you are lying in a puddle of your own piss. No, Watson, no laughing, _stop laughing_ , no, you’re mad, shut the _fuck up_ , shut the fuck up shut up shut up shut up... _Sherlock, Sherlock where the fuck are you Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock…_

~~~

_John, listen._

“You’re not there, Sherlock, you’re not there, you’re not here so shut up shut up.”

_Surely by now, you realize what they’re doing to you._

“Sherlock, you are not the FUCK HERE. Shut up.”

_They wake you up with pain, they keep it running till they give you orders. Even now, it’s there, aching, in the background. You’re so habituated to it, you barely notice it anymore. Operant conditioning._

“Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up, you’re not even here, you’re in my head. I’m going mad.”

_Soon, you’ll start to crave the orders, crave the manual abuse. It is inevitable. They are turning you into an animal._

“I know. I know what I am.”

_You must protect yourself, John. Put a part of you aside for later. Apart. They can’t touch it, and it is you. The rest is just transport._

“Don’t know how...Can’t.”

_Compartmentalize. There’s you, and there’s the rest of it. Keep you safe, John Watson. I’m coming._

“No, you’re not. If you were, you’d be here already. It’s all right. It’s all right. I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you. Please, God, just let me die.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Sherlock.”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock, wake up. We found Dr. Watson. We found _John_.”

Jerk upright, leap out of bed. He catches me as I fall, the bastard. Fucking leg.

“ _Where_?”

“Abandoned factory, quite cliche. You were right about the shipping container at the edge of that last video. We were able to derive his location by process of elimination. Regrettable that it took us this long. Agents are moving into position. You should be there when we extract him.”

“Give me that cane. Get out of my way.”

“Sherlock, he’s--”

“I _know_ , you insufferable bastard. Get me there.”

“Yes. Yes of course.”

~~~

 

John wakes up screaming in the hospital. Goes from unconscious to screaming bloody murder in literally one second.  I throw myself on top of him to keep him from jerking off the bed, and the bastard kicks me, right where where my femur is healing. Have to fight to keep from screaming myself. They give him morphine and he quiets. I bend over him, breathing raggedly, say his name. He recognizes me for a moment, and lapses into unconsciousness again. They restrain him.

It continues like that for weeks as they try treatment after treatment, therapy after therapy. Mostly, he lies in bed and shakes. He hardly sleeps, he only intermittently recognizes others in the room and almost never acknowledges me. Occasionally he’ll start screaming and thrashing against the restraints, usually upon waking.

After two months, It doesn’t take a deductive genius to realize they’ve given up hope for him. Mycroft informs me that John gave me power of attorney months before his abduction and that I must now decide where he should be sectioned to. It takes surprisingly little effort to have him released into my care.

_My care_.

Isn’t that a laugh.

They dope him into a quasi-comatose state and somehow, we make it home.

~~~

He wakes up screaming twice in the next twelve hours, interrupting his recorded screams as I re-watch the last month of footage that was sent to me. I dope him back into unconsciousness, using the last of the morphine I’d laid in for myself during his imprisonment, when all I could do was watch and watch and watch what they sent to me.  

After twelve hours of careful review, I snap the computer shut and make my way to the bathroom, where I proceed to vomit the scant contents of my stomach into the toilet. Not an uncommon reaction to watching those videos.  Mycroft told me his own people, seasoned though they were, had problems maintaining objectivity and they didn’t even _know_ him, let alone love him.  

I wash my mouth out and splash water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror, ordering my thoughts and steeling the transport.

Fact: Conventional treatment has not worked.  Fact: I will not lose him. Fact: I will destroy myself, possibly destroy _us_  to save him. I accept these things and, after I stop shaking, I make my way to the bedroom and ready myself.

I’m sitting naked on the bed, straddling his body when he wakes up in the middle of a full-throated scream.

I reach out and slam the back of my hand across his face. I hit him so hard that his entire body twists with the blow and he slams back into the headboard. Before he can react, I scramble up his body and thrust my cock into his mouth, shoving hard until I hit the back of his throat, pressing his torso back into the headboard effectively trapping him. His whole body shudders and relaxes and I begin to rock back and forth.

“Suck, John,” I order, keeping my voice carefully cold and impersonal.

His cheeks hollow and he sucks on me and I blank out my physical responses, dull the horror-induced nausea and inevitable pleasure by sheer force of will.

The transport obeys, and I continue to rock into him, pulling out enough for him to gasp a breath once in a while. After some time, I grab a handful of his overlong hair and pull his head back roughly. He’s looking at me, his eyes clear for the first time.

“Sherlock.”

“Shut up and listen, John.” I twist his hair and he lets his head drop back, sighing, relaxing.  I swallow past a knot in my throat.

“You are completely fucked up, John. I’m sure this is not news to you. Conventional therapy has failed. Your wires are crossed and everyone has given up on you ever getting over this ordeal.”

He tenses at the word wires and I twist my hand even tighter until tears prick in his eyes and he relaxes again.

“They wanted to dope you up and section you. I, however, will not give up, John Watson. I will not let them. You will answer the following questions with yes or no answers. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“When you wake up screaming, do you feel as though you are being electrocuted?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that it is psychosomatic?”

“Yes.”

“And it makes no difference.”

“No.”

“When I hit you, did the sensation of electrocution go away?”

“Yes.”

“When I...forced you to perform felatio, you relaxed.”

“Yes.”

“During last month of your incarceration, you began begging to be hurt by the man we now know as Sebastian Moran. It was preferable to you to beg him to torture and rape you personally rather than be subjected to remote electrocution. That is where we’re at now. We are going to work backwards, John. I’m going to help you.  I’m going to let go of your hair now. If you begin to feel as though you’re being shocked, ask me to help you. Do you understand?”

“...Yes.”

“I’m releasing you. Okay?”

“Sherlock. _Sherlock_.” He stares up at me, really seeing, really acknowledging my presence in front of him for the first time. There is within me an overwhelming urge to collapse on him, to pull him against me, to wrap my body around him and breathe him into my lungs. I refrain, though I’m shaking with it. It will not help him keep this tenuous equilibrium at the moment.

He reaches a shaking hand towards me and I take it, lacing our fingers together, letting my eyes drift shut as a flutter of warmth replaces the cold, deadness in my chest.

“John-- You will recover. I swear.” I meet his eyes, trying to convey how absolutely sure I am about this one fact.

“Fuck, Sherlock, what…” he drifts off, and his hands clench.

“Talk to me, John,” I order.

“The fuck? What the hell is wrong with me? What-- I’m sorry oh god oh _god, please, god Sherlock please_ ” His entire body clenches and my heart kicks hard in my chest.  I grab a fistfull of his hair and twist brutally, grinding my teeth to stifle yet another wave of nausea. 

“Oh…” his eyes drift shut and his mouth drops open slightly as he tugs against my hold, increasing the pain. “Okay….okay?”  He whispers after a while and I carefully blank my expression, totally unwilling to show how deeply that softly spoken question slices into me. Slowly, I release my hold on his hair.

After a few moments, tears slide down his face and I slide down his body, giving in at last to the overwhelming urge to cover him, to wrap my arms around him. I press my face into his neck as he begins to tense and bite down sharply on his trapezius muscle until he relaxes again.

“Fuck, what the fuck.” he mutters, shoving closer against me. “What the absolute fuck, Sherlock.”

“Shut up, John. Just...shut up.” I brush my fingers gently through his hair, kissing down the line of his neck, licking over the bite mark.

"What happened to your leg?" 

Of course he noticed. Give him enough time and he'll notice the track marks too. But now, he's relaxing. Melting against me. His body, when not strung tight by fear and pain, is the smallest thing--not John. Not John. I sigh.

"Got shot. Now shut up."

He does, but he shifts back, pressing his back into my chest. I throw a leg over his hip, eradicating any pockets of space between us.  We sleep for three hours before he wakes screaming.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

October 29.

I’m keeping this journal at Sherlock’s insistence.

Unlike Ella, he doesn't claim that it’ll make anything better or easier to bear. He simply informed me that, since he’s going through so much trouble to rehabilitate me, the least I could do is document the process and progress. So, here we are.

I've been home for a week. After three days of waffling between sleep, searing pain and Sherlock’s carefully controlled...pain therapy, for lack of a better term, he told me we had to find another solution to my random flashes of imaginary electrocution. When I asked why, he didn't answer and I realized that he had fallen asleep in the middle of his sentence.

I fucking hate myself so much that I can’t...I can’t breathe sometimes. That was one of those times.

So what we've done is this. Sherlock got some razor wire out of the broom closet (no idea) and I instructed him how to wrap it around my bicep, right where the muscle is the thickest, away from anywhere where it could do permanent damage.

Usually, my chest and abdomen will start to tingle before the pain starts, just like it did when the...like it did before, and what I do is, I flex my arm and the wire cuts into my skin and the pain...well, it’s enough. If I don’t get a warning, which has happened a few times, my muscles tense anyway while I thrash around like a fucking fish out of water and the effect is the same. And Sherlock can get some sleep and I don’t end up screaming. We take it off when he’s awake and he...yeah.

It’s fucked up, sure it is. But what about this isn't? At least this way I have the illusion that I can control my reactions. Actually, it’s more than an illusion. I wonder how long he’s been waiting for me to figure that out… Bloody genius.

It’s working, to a certain extent. My arm constantly hurts and that seems to keep me grounded. I actually woke today naturally, rather than jolting awake in pain. Sherlock informed me that, after six months of being shocked awake, my body associates becoming conscious with that sensation and is supplying it for me in the absence of actual electricity.

It makes sense. I mean, for months my brain convinced me I had a limp. This is no different, just more extreme. I am mad. Completely mad.

Another unfortunate side effect of my...time away… is that I can’t do certain things like eat, drink, piss, etc. without explicitly being ordered to do so. It’s as though I lock up, I freeze when I try to do these basic things voluntarily.

Sherlock’s set multiple timers around the house to remind him to order me to do these things.  He says he finds it fascinating but that doesn't explain why he vomited the entirety of breakfast up the first time we realized he had to order me to take a piss.

Sorry, Sherlock, but for the sake of completeness, I’m recording the effects of this process on both of us. Plus no one would ever believe how..how incredible what you’re doing is if it’s not written down somewhere.

It hurts you. I know it hurts you to hurt me, it hurts you to see me this way. I don’t know how you are able to keep doing it. I don’t think I could do it, if our roles were reversed. In fact, I know I couldn't. I wouldn't have even thought to try.

So, if anyone is reading this besides Sherlock, if I've managed to find my gun before he can stop me, none of this is his fault. Everything he is doing to me, he’s doing to help me.

I should have died back there. Sometimes I wish I had.


	4. Chapter 4

November 5th

I broke Sherlock. So, what happened was this: My piss timer went off, and Sherlock dragged himself away from whatever experiment he’s been working on and bundled me off to the bathroom and ordered me to take a piss. So I did.  

But, see, this is how fucked up I am. This is what a total, complete pathetic piece of stupid insanity I’ve turned into. I also need to be ordered to leave the loo. Usually Sherlock waits outside for me and lets me out.  But this time he left for a moment and I guess he forgot. It’s not his fault. He’s so strung out from lack of sleep and the constant, ever-present stressor that is me. He’s not a god, after all. Shit.

Anyway, I stood there, mute and stupid and eventually the light went off (I put a motion sensor in there a while back since the light switch was always just a bit too high for me to find it naturally in the dark.) and I stood in the loo in the dark, dick in hand, and couldn't move.

A few hours later, Sherlock came in, ostensibly to take a piss himself, and that’s when he broke. He ordered me out. He shut the door. I could hear him retching. He’s still in there. I can’t talk to him because he’ll order me to shut up and I’ll have to because, yeah, that’s sort of part of this whole thing too. So I’m writing it down.

Sherlock, you’ll read this. I know you will, eventually.

This can’t go on. It’s ruining you. It’s killing you. It’s killing me even as it’s helping me. We are dying Sherlock, you have to just let me go. Just let me go, please.


	5. Chapter 5

“Better?”

I hold him against the wall, digging my nails into his sternum under his shirt with one hand while holding his arms above his head with the other. He’s gotten so weak, it’s easy for me to overpower him at this point.

His body slowly relaxes against mine and I release his wrists and lean against him, sliding my hand to his waist, letting my forehead rest against his shoulder, unable to stop trembling.

“Sherlock, please.”

Even his voice has become small. I hate it. I hate him. I love him so much my heart wants to claw its way out of my chest and into his.

“No,” I whisper. “No.”

It’s been two weeks since I forgot about him in the loo and had my ridiculous meltdown, and he hasn't shut up about it since.

He’s asked me repeatedly. But I can’t. I can’t let him give up. I can’t give him up.

“You have to let me go. You brought me this far, Sherlock, now it’s up to me.”

“Shut up, John.”

I wince as I say it. I give so few commands, knowing that he’s compelled to obey. But I _can’t_. I can feel him tremble against me, fighting, struggling with every neuron in his short circuiting brain.

“No,” he grinds out and we both gasp. “Let me go.”

I stumble away from him, unable to suppress my grin.  “See, John? It’s working.”

“Yeah. It is. That doesn't change the fact that I have to leave, Sherlock. Make the call.”

I scowl at the ground.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he bursts out, and we both grin again.

“There you are,” I murmur, closing on him again, stopping when he stiffens. “I knew you were still in there, John.”

“Yeah,” he says, sidling away from the wall, getting into open space. “Look at that. Sherlock Holmes was right.. There should be a...parade...or something. Trumpets.”

“Snark’s not up to snuff yet,” I snipe.

“Yeah, give it time.” He throws me a shaky smile. “Just. Give me time, Sherlock. I want--”

He stops, swallowing convulsively, flexing his arm hard before digging fingernails into the wound there through his shirt. I have to force myself to keep my distance, force myself to let him try to cope, and it occurs to me that it’s possible he’s right.

“Sherlock, I need--I want to come back to you. I want to come back to myself. I want to love you properly and fuck you properly and run through the streets with you and find the fucker who did this and kill him with you and I need...I need to leave to do that. Please let me. Let me leave.”

“Okay,” I say, pulling out my phone. I can’t stop my hand from shaking. I speed dial Mycroft.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, baby brother?”

“Sod off. And send a car for John.”

“So, the good doctor has finally talked some sense into--”

I hang up abruptly and seriously contemplate throwing the phone through the open window.

“Sherlock.”

John sounds steadier than he has since his return. And now, just as he’s getting better, he’s leaving. I can’t look at him as I struggle to swallow my anger, this illogical hurt,  try to quell this ridiculous feeling that I’ll never see him again.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

I sigh and raise my eyes. He stares at me intently.

“You have saved me. Again. No, shut up. You have. You've given me what I need to help myself, at great cost to yourself- don't for a second think I don't know what this has cost you.  I love you so much. There are no words.” He frowns, shifting from foot to foot, his fingers clenching.

I don’t know what he needs right now ( _typical_ ). I only know what I need. Since I’m about to be denied his presence for an untold amount of time, I decide my needs take precedence. I reach for him and pull him against me, sliding my mouth against his, careful to keep my lips soft and chaste. He tenses, but when he relaxes, it’s with a whole body shudder and a moan. He leans heavily against me, wrapping his arms around my waist and for a moment  I can almost believe nothing’s changed..  

There’s a knock below. Apparently, Mycroft expedited John’s transportation. Probably thought I’d have a change of heart. John tightens his arms around my waist and deepens our kiss suddenly, licking into my mouth. It’s the first intimate gesture he’s initiated of his own volition and I can’t help grinning against his lips. He chuckles as our teeth clash lightly and slowly untangles himself from me.

“John. Anything. You know that. Everything. Whatever you need.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, rough and shaky. He nods, pursing his lips, considering.

“Just. Promise me you won’t go after him alone. If you find him while I’m away. Promise you’ll keep me in the loop.”

“Yes,” I say instantly. Was a time it would have been a lie, but I have given him everything of myself already: love, the like of which I never knew I was capable, tenderness I had always hoped for and violence that I will for which I will despise myself till I die. Giving him this promise is nothing compared to all that. I have no desire to face these things alone anymore, not after having been forced to do so.

“Be well, John.”

He nods and is gone. The flat echoes empty around me until I realize I’m twitching my fingers to the rapid beat of my own heart. I lay myself down on the couch and almost immediately, I am asleep. 


	6. Chapter 6

I’m in the middle of my last therapy session when my phone chimes and I ignore it. Oddly, that chime is the part of this whole ordeal that will haunt my dreams far into the future, even though I know, logically, that I’m not at fault for ignoring it. My phone has been going off more frequently over the past month as Sherlock gets excited about my return and how close he is getting to Moran. It’s become a sort of bridge for me to my old life.

 

Anyway, it’s an hour and a half until I’m back in my room, tossing my belongings into my duffel in preparation for returning home.  My phone falls out of my trouser pocket and I pick it up and open the text message sent from Sherlock’s number. There’s a file attached and I roll my eyes and start the download. Sherlock’s started sending videos of--well I’d say of a less than savory nature, but honestly, I savor the fuck out of them, so fuck off.  I set the phone down and make one last sweep of my room.

I start zipping up the duffel when the phone auto-plays the video. The first sound is a deep, ragged scream.

For a split second, my body tries to have a fit, but I am so very much over that shit and instead, a familiar detached calm settles over me as I watch Sherlock, who is trussed up like a goddamn Christmas goose, bleed from a ragged, messy cut across his torso. Moran grins up from behind him, military issue kabar like a fang in his hand, and the video ends.

I replay the video. He can’t have had Sherlock long. Even though the high iso graininess, I can see the rage firing his beautiful eyes, note the weight and muscle tone, the long expanses of blessedly unmarred skin. Can’t be more than a day, two at the outside. I’d gotten his last text on Tuesday. It’s Friday now.

I replay the video, ignoring Sherlock and trying to glean some details from the background, trying to remember his methods, to apply whatever I've learned from him over our years of friendship.

And wouldn’t you know it? It works. It actually _works_. I joked with Sherlock once that, should we ever tire of detective work, we could go to work for a production company and show them where to film their horror movies. He’d scoffed. Tired of detective work indeed. Well, there’s enough shit surrounding them in the video that I know where Sherlock is. We’ve been there before. And not just the building, the exact room. It’s almost enough to make me grin.

I’m on my way to the door when my phone rings. It’s Mycroft. Of course it is.

“John--”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No. Moran is working alone this time. Regrettably, that makes our job much harder.”

Good. It makes my job so, so much easier.

“John, I think it is advisable for you to remain at the...facility where you are for the moment.”

“No, Mycroft, I’ll wait at Baker Street.” I manage to convey the distinct impression that this is a battle he does not wish to fight.

“Very well.” He ends the call without another word. Not a word about how Moran managed to remove Sherlock from right under his nose, not a word of regret for bringing his brother into the case that put us on this psychotic’s radar, no word of remorse that his people bungled so thoroughly that the bastard escaped the last time.

Mycroft and I are going to have a very pointed discussion at a later date. Not much later, but now’s not the time.

It takes an hour to reach Baker Street in traffic. An hour of sitting in a cab with the weight of everything I can’t do at this very moment settling down on my shoulders.

I have to admit, I’m pretty fucking impressed with myself, all things considered. I mean, say what you want about therapy but, once I had been able to make use of it, it had apparently taken. I keep waiting for myself to fall apart into a mess of... well...  mess, and it keeps not happening.

I trudge up to the door of our flat putting on a show of worry and despair for the CCTV cameras until the door closes. I bound up the stairs, tossing my duffel down and immediately go to the place where I know Sherlock’s hidden the Browning (he thinks I don't know...I knew all along. It’s the same place he hid his drugs back when he still hid things from me).

I detour to my room to put on my boots and replace my red jumper with something darker. Almost as an after thought, I open my drawer and pull out my kabar, slip it into the inner pocket of my jacket.

Tit for tat after all.

I make my way up the fire escape to our roof and jump over the narrow gap between our building and the one next door and follow the invisible path that Sherlock mapped out for us... the path that allows us to avoid the range of the four cameras around our block of flats. I let myself down the fire escape and start walking west. They’re close, and a cab ride would deprive me of the time I need to review my strategy.

Well. I say strategy.

Doubtless, Sherlock would figure out some amazing way of winding him up to the point where he’d do something stupid and then catch him in plain sight of all the Yarders after a breathtaking, heart-pounding chase through the streets. There is definitely something wrong with me that I think that’s bloody good fun, but not when it matters. I’ll leave being clever up to he who does it best.  

I’m just going to walk in there and fucking kill him. Easy.

And the thing is, it should be just that easy. There’s no way Moran can know that I know where they are. I realize, though, with a burst of pleasure that Sherlock will certainly know that I know. We spent an interminable time in that room mapping blood spatter not a year ago. He’ll know that I know and he’ll know I’m coming and I won’t be long. He’ll hang onto that. It can get you through a lot, hope can.

The only unknowns in this scenario are my own reactions when faced with the man who tortured me for months and the state of Sherlock. I don’t know how long ago that video was taken. I don’t know how much worse off he is now. I can’t control either variable so I’ll just do the best I can.

As I pass through the basement door of the building, I text Lestrade.

_225 Brixler Road. Backup, Ambulance, the works. Hurry._

By the time everyone gets here I’ll be done, and if I’m not, they’ll mop up. I’m not so arrogant as to assume victory before I’ve achieved it.

I take a few moments to divest myself of my jacket, strap my knife to my thigh and check the magazine of my gun before making my way up the several flights of stairs.

Just before I reach the third floor, I begin to hear noises, echoing through the carcass of the building. A loud, bitten off scream, some scuffling. Something heavy and wooden dragged across the floor.

I reach the top of the stairs and hug the wall turning the corner to where the door to that room hangs open slightly, admitting a narrow bar of light from the bank of windows I know is on the opposite side of the room.

The bar of light flickers once, twice...he’s pacing. I remember him doing that. Pacing back and forth, looking for an angle to begin his work..maybe just admiring the view, what the fuck do I know. The light disappears completely as he halts in front of the door.

His back to a door that opens outwards. He must be very intent on whatever he’s doing to Sherlock, or else very stupid. Sherlock gasps and three things happen in very quick succession.

I pull the door open. I meet Sherlock’s eyes, which widen in panic as I raise my gun. I pull the trigger before Moran can turn, point blank range will add a nice new blood spatter…

“Fuck me,” I mutter, ducking as Moran spins around at the soft snick of a misfired weapon. I have my knife out and I score a nice, long, nasty slice on his thigh as I roll over my shoulder, fetching up next to the table on which Sherlock’s spreadeagled. Moran staggers sideways, cursing, and then lunges towards Sherlock, his knife raised, his intent clear in every line of his body.

Tactically, it’s a sound move. Why go after the moving target with the knife directly when you know you can disable him just as effectively by removing his reason for living?

Sherlock cranes his head backwards, and he tries to meet my gaze as the knife descends, but I’m not having any of that maudlin shit.

I follow the trajectory of the weapon heading for his heart, wait for the right moment then kick the leg of the table, scooting it four inches to the left. Moran buries his knife in the wood a hairsbreadth from Sherlock’s armpit and, in the fraction of a second that it takes him to release it, I’m on him, shoving my knife into him, through his rib cage, up, up, up into his heart. I twist for good measure, then turn away as he falls, convulsing.

He’s done. There’s only Sherlock who is staring at me in mild disbelief as sirens echo off the surrounding buildings.

“You removed the firing pin,” I say, bending to untie one wrist. “How many times have I told you not to play with my gun, Sherlock?” I move onto his other wrist and he reaches up and tugs the filthy gag out of his mouth, working his jaw before attempting to speak.

“Given the circumstances and your mindset shortly before you left, I felt it prudent.”

I snort at the dismissive tone, the hint of a smile in his voice as I untie his ankles, brushing my fingers over the red flesh welting over those fine bones.

“Can you sit up?” I ask, and he’s already moving, stiffly but with no sign of serious injury. I sweep my gaze over him, leaning around him to make sure there are no wounds hiding on his back. Other than the gash across his pectorals and some bruising over his back, he seems largely unharmed. Well, physically.

“John.”

I stand back and regard him, drinking in his gaze, soaking up the naked emotion so clear in his face.

“You look well.”

“I am well. I am well now, Sherlock.” I lean forward and rest my forehead against his sternum, above the bloody line carved there, and he cups the back of my head, cradling me against him with his bloody large hands. They find us that way and, to their credit, say nothing.


	7. Chapter 7

February 10

Sherlock has no trouble sleeping. The trauma of his abduction, and mine, presents for him in more subtle ways: Nausea at particular crime scenes ( _Ridiculous John! I’ve seen worse before. Damn him._ ) Sensitivity to certain odors, ( _He used bleach to clean the floor. Mad bastard._ ) Occasional mild panic during sex ( _No, don’t stop, keep going, I love...just... please._ )

He won’t seek counseling, and honestly, it probably wouldn't do him any good anyway. He wouldn't ever be able to _let_ it.

For my part, I do have trouble sleeping and I still deal with phantom pain, especially when I’m alone and it’s quiet. But I have developed some great coping mechanisms thanks to Sherlock’s mad nonsense about reconditioning ( _I don’t want to become a fucking masochist, you crazy bastard. Shut up, John, endorphins and whatnot._ )

And things are not all bad.

We are more aware of each other. We take nothing for granted. We appreciate a quiet evening once in a while. Sherlock is more physically affectionate (Sherlock, notice how I put this fact under ‘pros.’ It is _not_ weakness. I enjoy it. If you continue to try and curb those impulses, I may be forced to take...steps.)

All in all, things have largely gone back to normal, or what passes for normal for Sherlock and me.  

In fact, he’s reading over my shoulder right now while pretending to play the violin so maybe I ought to

“I am not.”

“Sherlock, you very clearly are reading over my shoulder.”

“ _Obviously_ I am reading over your shoulder, John. I am not, however, pretending to play the violin. I _am_ playing it. Quite well, actually, though a philistine like you wouldn't know the difference.”

“You know, if you’re curious about my thoughts on all of this, you could just, I don’t know. Ask. We could talk about it.”

“Tedious.”

“I won’t fight with you on that one. It is remarkable, though, how quickly everything got back to normal. Less time has passed since I killed that bastard than I spent there.”

“Notice how, though you agreed that talking about it would be tedious, you’re now doing just that?”

“You’re tedious. Play your violin, then, and I’ll finish up here, and we’ll go rustle up some crims or something.”

“John. I am not surprised by the alacrity with which we have regained our equilibrium.  Moriarty, Moran, whoever. They’re just...blips on the chart. We will always come back to this. Our lives here, together, this is a universal constant.”

“So, what, the speed of light, gravity, and tea at 221B? This is what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“That’s. That’s good. Yeah, that’s great. You’re right.”

His quick, self satisfied grin warms me like a shot of good scotch. “Of course I am.”

~Fin.


End file.
